


Senseless

by nishizono



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-04
Updated: 2010-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:03:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishizono/pseuds/nishizono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock experiences John with all five senses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Senseless

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** None of these characters are mine, nor am I being paid to play with them. All characters depicted in sexual situations are considered by the author to be over the age of eighteen, regardless of their age in the source material.

  
Sherlock has never dragged a struggling child through quicksand, but he imagines the experience would be similar to how he feels whenever he's forced to engage in conversation with anyone other than himself. The one exception to this rule (and indeed the exception to many of his rules) is John Watson.

There's nothing noticeably spectacular about John's intelligence, yet conversations with him are anything but tedious. Even when Sherlock can predict the outcome and all the steps that will lead them there, he can still take an abstract pleasure in the journey. Aesthetics are what make the difference, he thinks; it's all in the cadence of John's voice and the way his tongue curls around the letter 'r' when he's feeling sure of himself.

"John," Sherlock murmurs from what he imagines is an elegant sprawl on the settee. One of his legs is draped over the backrest of the couch and he has an arm flung over his eyes. In his own mind, at least, he's the very picture of Byronic heroism.

There's a pause in the tap-tap'ing of John's fingers on the keyboard of his laptop.

"I haven't had the opportunity to catch up on your charming little blog this week," Sherlock drawls. "Read it to me."

John's typing resumes.

Sherlock waits for almost a full minute, then says, "John."

"For god's sake, Sherlock, you're perfectly capable of reading it yourself."

"It isn't the same," Sherlock complains, then takes his arm away from his face to glare at John.

John glares back, obviously about to refuse again, but then he just lets out a put-upon sigh and mutters, "Fine, but I don't want to hear a single word of your so-called constructive criticism while I'm reading, understand? If you have any comments about what I've written, you can make them online where I can ignore them."

"Fine, fine." Sherlock offers John a dismissive wave, then closes his eyes and steeples his fingers beneath his chin.

John, ever the martyr, lets out another sigh and begins to read.

~*~*~

Sherlock realizes that John isn't what most people would consider attractive. His ears are too large for his head, his cheeks are scarred, and there are perpetual bags under his eyes. Yet all these things are exactly what make him fascinating, and if Sherlock wasn't so possessive of John's time and attention, he'd think it a shame that he's the only one who realizes it.

"Would you stop that?" John mutters.

John has spent the last hour reading the newspaper, and Sherlock has spent the last hour reading John.

"You have a date tonight," Sherlock says. He manages to keep the bitterness out of his voice but that doesn't stop him from feeling it. Sherlock has watched John date and ultimately fail with no less than two dozen women since they moved in together, and Sherlock has hated each and every one. None of them have done anything to personally offend him, of course, but the fact that they don't appreciate John the way he does is almost as bad.

John doesn't reply; he just flips a page in his newspaper and continues reading.

"You didn't tell me, so either you're embarrassed of her or you think I'll do something to interfere."

"That's because you _will_ do something to interfere," John replies with an exasperated huff. He folds his newspaper and drops it on the floor, then sits forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped in front of him. "Look, can I please just have one date to myself? Just one date without you texting me or following me. That's all I'm asking for."

The pleading look on John's face makes his forehead wrinkle and his eyes widen, and for just a few seconds, he's what Sherlock thinks other people would call beautiful.

"What's her name?" Sherlock asks, drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair.

John sighs and rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Emily. And no, I'm not going to tell you her last name because I don't need you looking her up and coming around during dinner to flaunt whatever dirt you manage to dig up."

"Emily," Sherlock repeats, mouthing the name as if he wants to spit it back out again, like he's taken a bite of something unappetizing.

"I'm serious, Sherlock." John takes his hands away from his face and gives Sherlock an imploring look. "I'm just asking you for one night, and then you can have me back at your beck and call tomorrow. Please."

"Of course, John," Sherlock drawls as he picks up his violin and plucks at the strings.

John stares at him for a few seconds, then retrieves his newspaper from the floor and settles back into his chair. Watching his shoulders relax almost makes losing him for the night worth it, Sherlock thinks. Almost.

~*~*~

Years of smoking have permanently damaged Sherlock's sense of smell, but not so much that he can't tell that John has slept in his bed. The pillow next his, the one that's there just for show, is indented in the middle, and Sherlock catches a whiff of John's shampoo when he buries his face in it.

Sherlock does a quick inventory: limbs, body temperature, pulse, and respiration. Everything seems to be operating normally.

Why then, he wonders, has John slept beside him? The only reason he can imagine for such a thing would be if he was injured or ill and required minute-by-minute supervision, but that clearly isn't the case. And if it had been a matter of John stumbling home drunk and deciding that sleeping in Sherlock's room was preferable to risking his neck on the stairs, then surely he would have been making enough noise that Sherlock would have heard him come in (never mind that the theory itself is so absurd that Sherlock is ashamed to have even thought of it).

It also occurs to him that for a man who spends so much time bleating about privacy and personal space, John doesn't seem to have a very good handle on either. Not that Sherlock minds, he realizes. In fact, it's alarming how much he _doesn't_ mind.

Sherlock sighs into the pillow, then inhales again through his nose. When he closes his eyes, he can picture John lying next to him, probably careful not to fidget or make too much noise. He wonders if John slept in his jumper or if he'd shed it for comfort's sake, and then he wonders if John had been wearing anything underneath.

Sexual arousal is by no means a foreign concept to Sherlock-- yes, he's married to his work, but he doesn't mind cheating on it from time to time when the mood strikes him-- but since he's never thought of John in that way before, it's something of a surprise when his body stirs.

Sherlock is motionless for a moment, cataloging the heat between his thighs and the way his cock is slowly hardening against his hip. Then, because his impulse control is questionable at best, he slides a hand in between his belly and the mattress to push down the front of his pajama bottoms. This is probably something normal people would consider inappropriate, he thinks, but since he can find no logical argument against it, there's no logical reason for him to stop.

Usually, he has a hard time concentrating on masturbation; his brain is never silent, even when he's getting off. This time, though, he has no trouble focusing one hundred percent of his considerable imagination on what it might have been like to wake up, roll over, and slide his hands down John's naked stomach. He wonders if John would reciprocate, give him instructions like 'yes' and 'there' and 'use your tongue', or if John would just lie there and let him explore until they were both so wound up that the experience would devolve to a frantic tangle of limbs, hands, and mouths.

Sherlock is _right there_ , dangling over the precipice of orgasm with his cock throbbing in his fist, when a knock on his bedroom door startles him and he freezes.

"Sherlock? All right in there?"

"Fine," Sherlock calls back. His voice is rougher than usual, but not enough to arouse suspicion.

"Sure?" John sounds genuinely concerned. "I thought I heard you-- well, I thought I heard something."

The urge to keep moving is too strong for Sherlock to ignore, so he begins thrusting into his hand again as he replies, "No, I'm fine John, thank you."

"Alright." John doesn't sound convinced. "Mrs. Hudson brought breakfast and I know for a fact that you haven't eaten in two days."

Sherlock tightens his grip and grits his teeth before calling out, "Let me get dressed and I'll be down in a few minutes."

There's a long pause. Sherlock has never prayed before in his life, but he considers doing just that if it will keep John from opening the door to check on him. By some miracle, he manages to stop moving his hips, but his hand is still squeezing and stroking his prick as best it can beneath the weight of his body. And god, he's always had such marvelous self-control, but he swears that if he even so much as sees John's face, he's going to--

"Alright," John finally replies.

Sherlock waits until he hears John shuffle away from the door before flipping onto his back and kicking the sheets away from his too-warm body. He grabs the pillow, _John's_ pillow, and presses it against his face while his other hand works furiously over the rigid shaft of his cock. It only takes a few more minutes for his orgasm to explode through his body, and when he comes, it's with a muffled groan into the pillowcase.

When it's over, he lies there on his back, blinking up at the ceiling and counting his heartbeats. Even though he's moved the pillow away from his face, he can still smell John all around him, on his skin and inside him, and he smiles. The orgasm has helped clear his mind, but he's still no closer to figuring out why John has slept beside him, and that's fine. It's all fine. Sherlock loves a good mystery, after all.

~*~*~

The mystery is solved before he gets the chance to properly investigate, but he can't bring himself to mind because _while_ said mystery is solving itself, he learns three new things about John Watson: 1) John's mouth tastes like tea even after he's brushed his teeth, 2) John's earlobe tastes like nothing at all, and 3) John makes the most incredible little growling noises when Sherlock sucks on his fingers.

And Sherlock hasn't even gone out of his way to get these answers; he'd woken up sometime after midnight with John's chest pressed against his back and John's lips mouthing kisses over the side of his neck. From there, it had been a simple matter to roll over and slide a leg between John's thighs, and catch John's mouth in a languid kiss. John had responded with a surprised-sounding grunt, but when Sherlock tried to pull away, worried that he was moving too quickly, John had grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled him back in.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock is coming apart at the seams.

Sherlock is hardly a virgin, but he's never felt anything like this before: this hot, urgent desperation that thunders through his body and leaves him gasping for breath. John's tongue is laving the head of his cock, and John's clever fingers are fucking his mouth, and Sherlock is clinging to sanity by a thread.

"Don't you dare come yet," John whispers as he lifts his head to look up at Sherlock. "You're going to wait until I'm fucking you, understand?"

Fact 4: John Watson is surprisingly, _delightfully_ dominant in bed.

Sherlock bites down on John's knuckles, defiant until the end despite the fact that his body is shamelessly begging for more, and earns himself a nip to the inner thigh that makes his hips buck. The head of his cock skids across his belly, leaving a smear of precome on his skin, and he lets out an undignified whimper when John licks his stomach clean.

"Why--" Sherlock manages to gasp out, but then John's teeth graze his hip and he has to catch his breath before he can speak again. "Why did you-- oh god."

"Would you believe me if I said it was because I wanted to see you incoherent for once?" John murmurs against the crook of Sherlock's inner thigh, but when Sherlock shoots him a glare, he laughs and says, "Alright, alright. I may be slower to catch on than you, but I _do_ catch on eventually, and you haven't exactly been subtle about it."

For once, it's Sherlock who isn't following along, though he's not sure whether that's because John isn't making sense, or whether it's because John is licking his stomach again.

"I wasn't wrong, was I? You _do_ want this," John whispers as he kisses his way up Sherlock's belly to his chest, and grabs Sherlock's wrists to pin them to the mattress.

It's not really a question, but Sherlock replies anyway: "No. No, you're not wrong."

The smile John gives him as Sherlock sets about sucking the taste of his own precome off of John's bottom lip says more than either of them could articulate out loud.

~*~*~

John's fingertips are calloused, but still sensitive enough that Sherlock can raise goosebumps on John's arms just by brushing his lips over the pad of John's thumb.

"Mm, what're you doing?" John mumbles against the back of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock doesn't reply; he skims his fingernails across John's inner wrist and watches the involuntary flexing of tendons beneath the skin.

"Do you even need sleep, or are you fueled solely by the aggravation of others?"

"You had a second degree burn on your ring finger," Sherlock replies, circling the barely noticeable scar with the tip of his index finger. "It happened in Afghanistan."

John grunts. "Can you _please_ not deduce me while I'm trying to sleep?"

"But that's the best time for it," Sherlock replies, but although his tone is serious, he can't help but to smirk a little. When he doesn't get a reply, he turns over, twisting the sheet around himself in the process, and stares through the semi-darkness at John's face.

It takes exactly fifteen seconds before John heaves a sigh and opens his eyes.

"You said I hadn't been subtle," Sherlock says. He doesn't admit that he has no idea what he'd supposedly not been subtle _about_.

"I didn't mean it as an insult." John huffs and rolls his eyes. "Though to be honest, it was a little insulting to _me_ that you felt the need to be so in-your-face about it. I can take hints, you know, at least when it comes to this sort of thing."

Sherlock still hasn't got the foggiest idea what John is on about, so he just buries his face in John's neck and skims his hands down John's stomach, memorizing the way John's skin feels beneath his fingertips. Eventually, though, he _gets it_ , and for a moment, he's not sure whether to laugh or blush with shame. Sherlock has never in his life been the last one to know something, especially about himself, and yet here's John, systematically plowing through every single rule of Sherlock's delicate little universe.

"You really are," Sherlock murmurs, "the most indecipherable creature..."

John sighs and slips his arms around Sherlock's waist. "I don't suppose I can convince you to leave off deciphering me until morning, can I?"

Sherlock smirks against John's neck. "You can try."


End file.
